One time I was driving very slowly with my oldest living brother
Through an arboretum he loves, where there are ponds and foxes
And owls and kingfishers, and all sorts of other holy amazements,
And I asked him what was up with his wicked cancers, how much
Pain was he in and what were his chances and what new medicine
Could he take a stab at; questions with hooks and bristles on them.
A heron labored past us. He was quiet for a moment, and I wasn’t
Sure if he heard me or if he had to gun his motor to get his answer
Up to his mouth, but then he said, in his usual quiet precise intent
Way, I would prefer to look for herons and wood ducks. And right
After that we saw the subtle wooden boxes where the ducks reside,
Beautifully carpentered things, meticulously shaped with reverence
For this particular stunning song in the world. The wood ducklings,
Usually a dozen or so, will leap from their box when their hour has
Come, and fall freely into the dark waters below; even though they
Cannot fly, they do not suffer injury. Soon thereafter they are aloft.
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
War abroad. Socialists on the rise. AI upending human life. Endless uproar online. The modern attention economy doesn’t want readers — it wants users enslaved to the tyranny of the present.
First Things is the antidote: literary excellence, timeless truths, and a fixed point of reference in a culture that has lost its bearings.
But we can’t do it without readers like you.
Our goal: Raise $150,000 by November 1 to sustain First Things in the year ahead.
Your gift anchors readers in the permanent things.
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